THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK

This new chronicle of the adventures of the king's musketeers,
as directed by Braveheart scribe Randall Wallace, suffers from a severe case of over-earnestness
and star-power overkill. It's agleam with sumptuous scenes of Versailles revelry
but with hardly any of Dumas' dank wit and ear for epic tragedy. Wallace, instead,
places things somewhere between the bravura silliness of Richard Lester's 1974 The
Three Musketeers and an Actors Studio self-help group: There's so much unintentional
mugging in this film I feared for my wallet. DiCaprio, as the tyrannical boy-king
Louis XIV, is at the heart of the problem. Certainly he has the boy part down pat,
and his haughtiness is unquestionable, but there's something about his flat, American
tones which leave his portrayal of King Fop lying in the dust. Likewise his Phillipe,
the king's twin and the titular man in the mask, whom he plays with a wide-eyed bluster
more appropriate to a pre-Titanic Jack Dawson. Clearly he's not the man for the job
here (and who is? my vote goes to Crispin Glover, if only to add the much needed
--and intentional --oddball quotient the film sorely deserves). As for the musketeers
themselves, what must have seemed a casting coup of mammoth proportions doesn't play
nearly as well onscreen as it does in the mind's eye. Irons is suitably pious as
Aramis, who spends his days praying in his room and advising the King in matters
of state while simultaneously plotting against him. The same goes for Byrne as the
conflicted D'Artagnan, now Captain of the King's musketeer regiments and thus sworn
in allegiance to DiCaprio's power-mad teddy boy. Malkovich, however, is coming out
of left field as Athos, who is spurred to treason when Louis sends off his son Raoul
(Skarsgaard, doing an impeccable Malkovich, Jr. impersonation) to die in order to
make time with the boy's lady love, Christine (Godreche). Of course, Malkovich always
seems to be playing left of center, but here his clipped, monotone Midwestern accents
trip him up, and his paternal stoicism is cartoonish. Depardieu, as the lusty, aging
Porthos seems to be the only one having any fun with his role; when not bedding the
scullery maids or finishing off yet another flagon of ale, he's grousing about the
unfairness of growing old and dreaming of past glories, a grizzled lech with a faltering
rapier. The film itself is a jumble of period images that swirl by with little meaning
or resonance, a series of ornate parties, treacheries, and rescues. It lacks the
inherent impact of Dumas' tale, and its emotional core seems tacked on and unfinished.
It's all swash and no buckle. (3/13/98)

2.0 stars Marc Savlov

NIL BY MOUTH

As our culture spirals ever-inward toward full convergence with the realm of daytime
talk shows and Abuse Movies-of-the-Week, our capacity for shock diminishes in kind.
So it's noteworthy when a movie like Gary Oldman's Nil by Mouth has the power to
pierce the hard rind that's formed over our collective senses of revulsion, outrage,
and empathy. Dedicated to the memory of his father, this brutal cinema vérité
depiction of a prodigiously screwed-up English family emphasizes the semantic inadequacy
of such words as "dysfunctional" and "codependency." Autobiographical or not, the
violent pathologies consuming this South London working-class clan will seem all
too believable to anyone who's ever known such people, or who simply reads the morning
paper. Father Ray (Winstone) is a binge-drinking, coke-snorting, topless bar-crawling
hulk who rules his brood by fist and decree. The most frequent targets of his rage
are his pregnant wife Val (Burke) and her teenaged dope-fiend brother, Billy (Creed-Miles).
However, as in almost all such cases, a whole social network is required to facilitate,
justify, or pointedly ignore this behavior, thus ensuring its continuation. Buddies
of a similar stripe commiserate with the abuser. In-laws ineffectually complain.
Neighbors just try to stay the hell out of the way. Even the abused parties have
their own tortured rationales for staying in harm's way. Where Oldman really excels
is in placing his harrowing material in contexts that illuminate and, to some degree,
explain it. Ambient lighting, hand-held cameras, and omnidirectional mikes mirror
the crude immediacy associated with John Cassavetes' films (Husbands is an especially
clear reference point). Lo-fi music booms constantly in the background and characters
talk over each other in barely comprehensible slurring riffs that feature the f-word
as noun, verb, and adjective --often in the same sentences. (Fair warning: American
audiences are likely to find a good half of the heavily accented dialogue so indecipherable
that subtitles would be well in order.) The characters' immersion in this world of
mindless, ultimately numbing sensory stimulation goes a long way toward helping us
understand their emotional debilitation. The simplest, highest tribute is due to
the performances of Burke, Winstone, and Morse (who plays Val's mother): We know
these people and can vouch for the authenticity of every miserable, muddleheaded
word and deed. The only reservation I have in recommending this film is the ultimate
question of what value there is in this kind of naked, unmediated portrayal of such
wretched situations. What Oldman has done is to open a window onto scenes we know
are taking place everywhere, all the time. Why --and if --we choose to look is a
personal call for every viewer. (3/13/98)

3.0 stars Russell Smith

Nil Power
- A full-length review of "Nil by Mouth" from last week's Boston Phoenix